Kidnapped
by Dr. Kaitie Holmes
Summary: A short Shassie story. Shawn solves an open serial murder case, but disappears on his way to the station. Lassiter to the rescue! (Oh, and Gus helps). Rated T for swearing, some bondage, and flirty guys.
1. Missing

"Detective Lassiter!"

Carlton turned, expecting to see Shawn Spencer tagging along with his friend, but it was only Gus.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely.

"Yeah, I hope so," Gus answered, licking his lips nervously. "Have you seen Shawn? He was supposed to meet me here an hour ago."

Shaking his head, Lassiter took a drink of coffee and picked a file off his desk. "You know, I would _love_ to help you track Spencer down, but I have actual police work to do."

Gus hurried after the detective as he strode down the hall. "Look, Lassiter, Shawn has never been late with something like this."

Carlton scoffed. "When is Spencer ever on time?"

"When he's about to crack a case. He had me come down because he solved the Milton murders!"

That stopped Lassiter in his tracks.

The Milton murders were a very puzzling case. There was no suspect, no identified murder weapon, no motive. Just seven random people, nothing in common, killed on the same street-Milton Street. The coroner had said the weapon had been long and thin, made of some type of metal. The case had been open for three months. "You're trying to tell me-oh, forget it. Why am I even surprised anymore?" He looked up at the ceiling, wondering why. Why he hadn't solved the case himself. Why Shawn Spencer was constantly on his nerves. Why the ceiling was never painted.

"Detective Lassiter?"

With a sigh, Carlton returned his attention to Gus. "Have you tried calling him?"

"Yes," Gus answered, a little offended. "Every five minutes on the dot. No answer."

Lassiter returned to his desk and pulled up the GPS tracker to trace Shawn's mobile. Its final location was...

"Some shack in the middle of nowhere?" Lassiter frowned. Something wasn't right about this... He slipped an extra gun into his ankle holster and stood. Gus followed him out to his car.

"Did Spencer tell you who he suspected?"

"Not really, but he seemed to think it was a guy named Homer Jones."

"Where does he live?" Gus gave him the address, which Carlton quickly mapped in his head. No more than three miles from the shed. The feeling of dread grew in the pit of his stomach. "And Spencer said he was coming _directly _to the station?"

"Yeah," Gus confirmed. "He was on his way when he called me earlier. He sounded pretty freaked out."

"That's what I was afraid of," Lassiter muttered, switching on the sirens.


	2. Shawn in the Shed

Shawn woke up very confused. He had no idea where he was, his head hurt, and his arms were chained above his head. He was in some sort of shed-an old one-near the ocean. He could smell the ocean and hear the waves...but no people. A private beach? Or a place too rocky for beach-goers?

Stop thinking about the beach! Shawn glanced about the shed, twisting to try and see behind him. He was facing the back wall. There were trunks and boxes lining the floor, and the wall to his left was covered in newspaper clippings. The clippings all mentioned the Milton murders. "Oh, no," Shawn whined, swinging his whole body in denial. "Not a psycho's scrapbook wall! I don't wanna be murdered!"

"Then you should mind your own business!" a scary voice snarled from behind him. Shawn tried his hardest to twist his head in a circle.

"Look, I'll mind my own business. I'll become a hermit! A mute hermit! I'll never tell anyone. Just don't murder me."

The man came around to face him as the psychic babbled. It was Homer Jones.

"I knew it!" Shawn shouted before he could stop himself. He should really take Gus' advice and duct tape his mouth shut.

Jones was a small, mousy man. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, slacks, and a checkered shirt. He was unassuming, and looked like an IT guy. However, that look in his eyes...it dispelled any doubts he had. This man had definitely murdered people.

"Shawn Spencer," Jones murmured. "Do you know what this is?" He held something up for Shawn to inspect; all the blood drained from Shawn's face. It was a hat pin. Long, slim, made of metal...the murder weapon. At the end was a bunch of blue flowers and feathers.

"That must be the most ridiculous murder weapon ever," Shawn blurted. He really could never shut up.

"Think this is funny?" he snarled. He shoved the hat pin into Shawn's face, a fraction of an inch away from his nose. "You're going to ruin everything. I can't have that." He turned and began muttering to himself.

Stall, Shawn ordered himself desperately. I've got to stall.

"What are you going to do?" he asked. Hopefully, he could get this guy to monologue-then Gus would find him.

"Kill you, obviously." Jones came back and rested the tip of the pin against Shawn's throat. "A puncture there. Then I'll jerk it to the side to tear a hole. You'll bled out in approximately thirty seconds."

Shawn gulped, feeling the tip scrape against his skin. "Wh-what about my body? Not so easy to get rid of that."

Jones tilted his head to the side. "I'll toss you off the cliff. The ocean will take you."

A bead of sweat rolled down the psychic's face. There had to be some way out of this...

Please, someone, he prayed. Find me.


	3. A Single Shot

**AN: **I am so sorry about the mix up, guys. I blame late nights. Here's the right one...

Lassiter peered at the shed through his sunglasses. They were parked quite a way from the building, surveying the scene. There was a rusty old Chevy parked nearby, but no sign of life. The head detective stepped out of the car and began walking forward. Gus hurried behind him.

"A-are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked. His voice betrayed his nervousness. "Where's our backup?"

"We don't need back up. Now be quiet."

Together, they crept up to the door and took up positions on either side. Carlton inched back a bit and waved his hand. It was time for Gus to execute his part of the plan.

_Knock knock knock. _

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Listening closely, Lassiter heard someone moving in there. There was a moment of low whispering, and then the door creaked open. A nervous, bespectacled eye peeked out. "Y-yes?"

"My car broke down," Gus lied, pointing to Lassiter's car. "Can you give me a hand?"

"No." The man started to close the door, but froze when Lassiter appeared, gun pointed at him.

"Step back and keep your hands up."

The man complied. Carlton kept his weapon trained on him and swept his eyes around. He immediately spotted Spencer, shackled to the ceiling. His mouth was gagged, and his shirt had ridden up, revealing a stretch of lightly tanned skin. The detective had to admit that Shawn looked attractive like that, but now was not the time. Refocusing on the perp, Lassiter ordered him to keep his hands above his head and turn around. He tossed Gus the cuffs. Shawn's friend cautiously moved to handcuff the man.

Suddenly the man twisted and shoved Gus into the detective. Carlton's gun went flying. Scrambling to a box, the man snatched up a hatpin and rushed them. Quickly, Lassiter grabbed the gun from his ankle and shot off a single shot.


End file.
